Afraid of My Heart
by retina burn
Summary: Dave Rossi and Emily Prentiss try to define what they have, and what they want. Post 'Epilogue.'


**Title:** Afraid of My Heart  
><strong>Author:<strong> justspies  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Rossi/Prentiss  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Word<strong>**Count:** 2,975  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> For 'Childhood's Hour' & 'Epilogue'

_Sometimes, __I'm__ terrified __of__ my__ heart. __Of __its __constant __hunger __for __whatever __it __is __it __wants._  
><em>~ Edgar <em>_Allan __Poe_

The rain is keeping perfect time to the rhythm of his thoughts, cycling through varying degrees of anger, fear, regret, and the need for something steady, something constant to tether himself to again. Rain begets creation, its influence seeping into the earth, spawning and sustaining immeasurable amounts of life; it has the power to destroy, too, with its sheer volume, the magnitude of its strength, when flowing purposefully. On a less scientific level, rain is redemptive, holy, and has the power to influence your moods, make you feel sad or happy or infinite. Today, it just feels mournful, like it exists solely for him.

Life and death, held right there in the palm of his hand. He has no ability to wield its power, only to be a helpless observer.

_You're__ not __alone_, it says. The sun doesn't sing like the rain does, and he decides it's some small mercy from the universe, because he believes in things like that.

No amount of time can completely erase how it felt to hold Carolyn in his arms while she drew in her last breath. He supposes on some level, he's grateful for that, knowing he'll have an intangible piece of her nestled in his arms for the rest of his life. It's too easy to lose pieces of someone, the longer you live without them. But if you're there when they die, they leave something behind that can't ever be lost.

He's been walking for an hour now, he thinks, though he hasn't kept track of the time. It wasn't raining when he left, which is why he's so much wetter than he should be, and why there's a chill that wraps around his bones as he nears his house.

He's not expecting company, she knows, not expecting anyone. That doesn't stop Emily from making the decision to drive to his place in the freezing rain, to not even bother knocking before putting her key in the lock and stepping into his mansion of a house. She calls his name three times before doing a cursory inspection of his house. It's instinct and experience that has her checking vacant rooms, and reassuring herself there are no signs of a struggle to lead her to worry about his physical well-being. His car is still here, which must mean he's taken a walk, a fact that _does_ rouse her concern. All she can do is be here when he gets back, do her best to soothe him. And if she's lucky, she can figure out how to fit into his life again, the way she did before. It's really no one's fault; they've both had so much on their mind since she got back. The team is a family, and they have all been hurting, and neither one of them is the type to take care of each other to the exclusion of everyone else. Her coat gets hung up on the rack by the door, she kicks off her shoes, and sets her gloves down on the counter. If this was a year ago, she would have opened a bottle of wine to have ready for him, or even started cooking something: Indian, or Persian. She leaves the Italian to him. But they're in stasis now, frozen between what they had and what they could have.

The first thing Dave notices when he makes it to his front door is Emily's car in the driveway, the second thing he notices is that she's not in the car, which means she's inside already. The front door's not locked, which is something that makes him frown a little as he steps inside.

"Hey," she says from the den, standing up immediately to meet him. There's palpable concern in those dark eyes, and he appreciates it as much as he might try to assure her there's no need for it.

He shrugs out of his wet coat, hanging it on the coat rack next to hers to dry. And then his fingers brush through his hair as he stands there, just watching her.

"Why are you breaking into my house on a Sunday?"

She purses her lips. "Is the day really relevant?"

"Emily -"

Fumbling for something in her pocket, she finally unearths a key, holding it before him. "When you give someone a key, I think you forfeit the right to call it breaking and entering."

He'd almost forgotten that, and he knows why. And it makes his breath catch on his lower ribs, delaying that function for an extra second as he remembers how _unsteady_ the earth felt, the night she died. His heart was loose in his chest, his feet shuffled aimlessly, as though knowing that no matter where he went from that day forward, he would always be lost.

It's the first time since she's come back that she has bothered using it all. Everything has been cautious and delicate, with all of them. They are all moving at a slow tempo, a waltz of relearning each other.

And then Carolyn had come back, and it's not until today, after he's buried her, that he can start to truly move on and heal. He's just not sure what he really needs right now. He's not sure what he deserves.

Before she died, Emily was the more uncertain of the two, the one more reluctant to trust. They've both been hurt, they've both suffered losses in relationships, and neither makes any proclamations about being good at them. But they're good _together_. And Emily realized it completely that day she opened up her heart just a little, and told Dave her secret, told him about her teenage years in Italy. All those hours and days and months they had together after that became a process of slowly unearthing her heart, teaching her to really trust him and let herself love him. She knows that she deserves him, but she can see the fear in his eyes now, the way he's looking to the future and wondering whether or not he will fuck this up. He doesn't even realize it, but she's the stronger one, in this moment. She's a few steps ahead of him, and on steadier ground.

"Why are you here?" There's no reproach in his tone so much as there is a plaintive need to understand.

_Is__ there __too__ much __between __us __now? _They both wonder.

"...be..._cause_ I'm worried about you," she draws out that first word, the way she does when she feels like she's just stating the obvious, and it's really unnecessary to have to say this at all.

As though he has somehow forgotten his clothes are completely soaked through, he moves into the kitchen, putting the kettle on to boil water. Emily follows him, her arms crossed, brow furrowing even more in concern.

"You don't have to be," he states gently.

"Right. I shouldn't be worried about how you're dealing with Carolyn's death, I shouldn't be worried that you haven't answered my calls since Friday." She's standing in front of him now, and touches his shoulder. There's a _squish _sound, as her hand meets the saturated fabric. "And this isn't cause for concern at all."

"It wasn't raining when I left," he offers, feeling this should be a satisfactory explanation.

"How long were you out there?"

"I wasn't timing myself, Emily," his voice is a little terse, and he turns away, not wanting to meet her eyes.

There are so many thoughts and emotions warring for dominion in his mind right now that it's difficult just to focus on one simple question. It's not just Carolyn's death, it's those things Emily said, about her own death. _Cold_. She is here, very much alive, but she _had_ died. For a few minutes, he'd lived in a world where she hadn't existed, for months he had lived with the reality that saying her name out loud would give him nothing in return but silence. For months, she had been nothing more than a name etched in stone, and that thought still haunts him, and he doesn't know what do about _them_, now.

"I'll make the tea, you should go change into dry clothes."

He's silent and unmoving for the count of ten seconds, and then finally pushes away from the counter, nods, and heads upstairs to change. He divests himself of the wet clothing with meticulous deliberation, a memory of _her_ accompanying every movement, every undone button, every piece of his wardrobe hung over the shower rod. A hot shower would be nice, but she's here, and this is the first time they've been alone in this capacity since they got back. They had this ineffable thing between them, that had started shortly before her friend Matthew died. Words seemed inadequate when attempting to define precisely _what_ they had, and neither was in a rush to put constraints on their imperfect, yet desirable connection by attempting to do so. They were happy, the kind of happy that a human heart demands, while not expecting anything logical, or even functional. They didn't have to be _anything_, they just had to _be_.

They had never even said, "I love you," though the words had clung to the air between them, begging to be given a home in the heart of the other. And when he had finally said it, it had been to her ghost, and there had been nothing but a cold wind to hold the words, promising pitifully that somewhere, somehow, she would hear it.

He decided, when she got back, that he couldn't lose that chance again, but he's been unsure of her in a way he hasn't been since they first met. She has been closed off, the whole incident making her both fearful and yet so appreciative she can't bear it. They don't know where they stand anymore, only that they both want it to be together. Again.

She wants him to be happy, is her main thought, as she waits for him in the semi-darkness. Reid has been the one most obviously hurt by everything, and even if Dave suspected the truth, he didn't know for sure. He was hurt, and he had to let her go, and maybe it's too much to ask of him now, to let her in again, to open himself up to the kind of pain they'd been trying so desperately to avoid with each other. It's not something she did deliberately, but she didn't divulge all the secrets of her former life to him. He didn't know about Ian Doyle, he couldn't completely protect her, and her parting gift was a damn tombstone he could visit, as if that would adequately supplant the immeasurable blessing of being held by the person you loved. She knows that he doesn't feel the same kind of anger or betrayal the others have felt, that he thinks with his head, and he understands the logic in what she had to do. But he loved her, once, and human minds can be messy when love is taken so abruptly. He loved her once. Her hands tremble briefly, and she tells herself it's only from the slight chill in the room.

When he finally comes downstairs, he finds Emily curled up on the sofa in the den, the dim light from the lamp pinning her silhouette to the opposite wall. And all over again, he is ruined by her. It's a good thing, he thinks, because things often become more beautiful when they've been salvaged from ruins, when they know what they can lose.

He sits on the edge of the chair near her, his hands folded together, forearms resting on his knees. And then he catches her eyes, waiting for her to meet his.

"Emily," he loves being able to say her name again, knowing he'll hear her voice in return, "I need something."

"Anything."

"Do you mean that?"

She makes a face that's almost a frown. "You never questioned that before."

"I never lost you before."

"You didn't -" She swallows heavily, then, knowing what he means. Her thoughts have been focused on Carolyn, on his grief, on their conversation about second chances. She also knows how much they all mourned her 'death,' how scared they must have been in that waiting room. A knot tightens in her stomach when she contemplates how she would have felt, if the situation had been reversed. It had almost had been; there was that terrifying moment when Ian Doyle's henchman had the gun trained on Seaver and Dave. Seaver's loss would have been upsetting, and the guilt would have been unimaginable, but the silent sobbing on her part had been purely over the idea of losing Dave. His death would have shattered her in irreparable ways, and there are still nights when the memory pulls her out of sleep.

Emily takes his hands, squeezes his fingers. "You haven't lost me," she assures him.

He maneuvers their hands so that he's holding one of hers while his other hand begins to trace the lines and grooves of it, over her knuckles, across the palm. His thumb at last rests on the pulse point, stroking back and forth across it, as if to beckon it, and seek assurances that it will continue to beat just as firmly for the rest of his life.

"Dave, I'm sorry about Carolyn. I know you were...hopeful," she fumbles for the right word.

There's a half-smile on the corner of his lips, one that's sad and hollow and makes her want to hold him.

"I loved her," he starts, his eyes focused on her veins, needing to affirm that every piece of her really is intact. "And I missed...the _idea_ of her. But I know what I want, and I know who I need."

Admitting to needing someone else isn't ostensibly an earth-shattering admission, not when compared with other vaguely romantic confessions and overtures one could make, but given both of their natures, it holds vast amounts of meaning. It's something Emily would be a little more afraid of admitting, whereas with Dave, he's less reluctant to let it loose upon the world. Once he feels something deeply enough, those emotions can compel such an admission. In matters of the heart, he is often a bit more reticent, better at physical displays of love, and romantic gestures. He doesn't feel like he needs to hide his emotions, especially not with Emily, but he simply doesn't always express them as readily as others might.

"Dave...God, I missed you," she leans her forehead against his.

Carefully, he disentangles their hands so his are free to cup her cheeks, trace her jawline, bask in the feeling of infinity that touching her skin gives him.

"You said you needed something. Something besides me?"

His inhale is sharp, shaky, and his eyes shut briefly before he speaks. "You were cold. You said it was cold."

Swallowing a lump, Emily nods, and then he continues, "I need you to be warm. I'll do anything to keep you warm." _Alive_, is the hidden meaning behind the esoteric words. He needs her to be alive, he needs to believe he can ensure that, as much as _no __one __can_. But he's never been a man swayed by a general consensus to the contrary.

"You do. You're the only one who ever has." In every sense of the word. He makes her _feel _alive. "What else? What else do you need?"

"Just this," he murmurs, shifting onto the sofa so he can wrap his arms completely around her. "I love you, Emily."

There's a sound, like a half-sob that doesn't know how to fully exist, and it's buried in his chest as she clings to him more tightly.

"I love you, too," she finally says, and kisses him. It's the first time in weeks that she's truly felt home. To him, it's perfect, it's like the manifestation of all the warmth in the universe, like Time itself will stop if he just asks, if he whispers, if his voice holds a timbre that says, 'I need this. I _need_ it, don't ever take it away from me again.'

_fin._


End file.
